


Between The Bars

by TheWarriors



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, I offer hugs., Love/Falling in Love, M/M, Sadness, Trigger Warning(s)- Depression/Mental Instability/Mental Breakdown/Self-Medication/Hallucination, after every chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWarriors/pseuds/TheWarriors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's life begins to fall apart after his friend's death.</p><p>Sherlock tries to put him back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As Ugly As I Seem

There was one reason, and one reason only, that John didn’t go to the funeral. It wasn’t the excuse Mycroft confronted him with, nor was it the one he gave Mrs. Hudson and Molly, and it was assuredly not the one he told himself. The reason John Watson couldn’t go was because it felt far too much like saying goodbye.

In the end, he wasn’t entirely clear on whether anybody actually attended the ceremony, and he couldn’t bring himself to picture the barren proceedings. Not that Sherlock would have admitted minding. He wasn’t a robot, not really, but that never stopped him from acting like one sometimes. John treasured those days when Sherlock’s veil fell, and considered himself one of the lucky few who ever saw him truly afraid, or angry and impassioned, or maudlin and moping.

******

It took him nearly a month before he could bring himself to visit Sherlock’s grave, and when he did John was surprised to find it didn’t hurt as much as he’d imagined. What were choked back tears in comparison to sobs, really? Sometimes being a soldier was far better than being a man.

Once Mrs. Hudson had left him standing by the gravestone –a big, shining black dramatic thing, which suited Sherlock perfectly- he felt he could finally say the words he’d been holding back since Sherlock had cut him off on the phone with an abrupt “Goodbye, John.”

He could nearly imagine Sherlock mocking his sentimentality, or perhaps pointing out the redundancy in the phrase “The most human… human being.”, but John decided not to care. This was his goodbye, and his apology, so his mental Sherlock could shut it.

But that was another problem. Sherlock had invaded his life, not only the time they actually knew each other, but somehow he had become a part of John’s memories and his character as well. Sherlock sat in the front row at John’s graduation from University, Sherlock waited in the hallway as John signed himself away to a military career, and Sherlock chastised him for his mistakes in Maths class. How could John ever be rid of Sherlock Holmes? Did he ever want to be?

Finished with his farewell, John allowed himself to beg. He begged Sherlock to come back to him, living and whole, like John was a child who didn’t understand abandonment. Nothing but silence answered him, so John saluted the gravestone, turned crisply on his heel, and strode out of the cemetery, his gait even and stiff.  
“Don’t make people into heroes, John.”

******

John stood outside the door to 221b studying his shoes intently. Sherlock had once described to him the important things that could learned from people by their footwear, one of his many lectures that John had ignored in favor of the book he was reading. Despite his urgent desire to recall what it was exactly that Sherlock had said, John was staring at his own laces for purposes other than deduction.  
Somehow looking at his plain brown loafers helped him gather his courage to enter the darkened flat. There was nothing remarkable about his shoes in the slightest, in fact, he wore them quite often. This familiar pair seemed to say that nothing quite so terrible could happen- that they would remain on his feet as they had always done. They wouldn’t leave him.

“I am being utterly ridiculous.” John muttered, resigning himself to look up and reach out for the door handle. He sucked in a deep breath and pushed, striding into the entryway before he could lose his nerve. His therapist would be proud of his resolve. He needed a new therapist.

John closed the door behind him quietly, and made his plodding way up the creaking, carpeted stairs up to their flat. His flat.  
He stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs and stared. Most of Sherlock’s things had been boxed up by Mrs. Hudson mere days after John watched his best friend lean off the edge of the hospital rooftop, but the process of removing them remained to be done. Mycroft had not as yet expressed any desire for the items that made up his brother’s life, excepting a small, pocket-sized black journal that John had no memory of ever seeing before.

And so the flat remained as dilapidated as ever, boxes stacked high and pushed to the walls. The kitchen alone had just begun to resemble cleanliness, as scientific equipment and all toxic or deceased experiments were either packed with the rest or thrown away. John’s mental Sherlock was horrified by the disorganization of his things, but John elected to ignore him again. John sighed, clambering around a pile of miscellaneous papers and illegally-obtained ID’s to drop into his chair.

An opened bottle of brandy sat warm and stagnant on the end table, and John reached for it mindlessly, swiping his free hand over his face before he drank deeply and swallowed. He winced slightly at the taste but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the action, appreciating the slightest buzz creeping up the back of his neck. John considered brewing some tea but quickly dismissed the idea. Getting up seemed far too difficult at the moment, as a familiar and dull ache had settled bone-deep in his leg. The pain had returned almost as abruptly as it had disappeared so long ago, and John chose not to linger on the possible reason why that was.

Truthfully, getting around anywhere was proving to be more and more difficult. He likened it to wading in water, gradually dipping lower and lower as time went on. John pictured Sherlock urging him to hurry up, to haul himself through the day. He was so dramatic.

A small part of John’s consciousness relished imagining Sherlock throwing a tantrum over such things. In fact, imagining Sherlock had become a comforting and fairly regular practice. Slowly, Sherlock had wormed his way back into John’s daily life, his personality seeping into John’s thoughts and actions. He was not yet comfortable sitting alone in the silence of 221b, and so filled his waking moments with Sherlock- a creation he pieced together from memories and observations and dreams. John didn’t know how long he could keep pretending, but the alternative seemed far more difficult.

Sadness was not an admission he allowed himself. He had seen many men die before his flatmate ...his best friend... , and some had taken their last breaths under his bloodied hands as he worked to keep them alive. They never teach you not to care in medical school, nor in the military, it just comes with the job. But nothing had ever hurt quite like this.

*****

The night passed insufferably slowly, as had the nights before that for a matter of weeks now. John sat, drink in hand, on his chair, staring absently at the vacant seat in front of him. Nobody had used or moved Sherlock’s chair since St. Barts, and John knew that he would never let it be taken away. He took the last long sip from the short glass, the dark liquor burning his throat. “G’night, Sherlock.” He murmured blearily to the empty room, drifting off to a dead sleep.


	2. Blown Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it true?
> 
> How could it possibly be true....

The rain outside pounded on the window, the noise of it thundering inside John’s head like an incessant drumbeat- in perfect time with his throbbing headache. He pressed his fingertips to his brow and sighed heavily, taking a moment to summon the strength to get up. He did everything so slowly these days, just as he used to do. Before Sherlock…  
The pain of that thought drove him into motion, and he stumbled to his feet. Sherlock’s coat slid off of his shoulders and onto the floor. John blinked his heavy-lidded eyes, rubbing at them with the heel of one hand as he shuffled into the kitchen. The countertops were bare, seemingly naked without a crazed assortment of scientific equipment and dissected human remains. Mrs. Hudson snuck into the flat every few days- smuggling food in and tidying up as much as she could while John was at work or napping in his chair.

John pulled open the refrigerator door, half expecting to come face-to-face with some poor decapitated sod, but of course there was nothing. Frozen body parts had been replaced by ordinary things like bottles and jam jars weeks ago, and John knew it. This didn’t stop him from hoping that one day he would return to the flat from work and find that familiar, infuriating clutter that meant Sherlock was home.

He took out the cold glass jar of strawberry jam, turning to flick on the toaster as the fridge door swung shut behind him. He found the bread where it had been left the previous morning and set about making himself a meager breakfast. Once the kettle was set to boil and his toast was laid out on a tray, John went to turn on his laptop. He had shut the blog down immediately after Sherlock’s sudden absence ….death… but under unwelcome advice from his  
therapist he had reestablished it. She reckoned it was better for him to keep busy. He reckoned it was better for him to not bother.

A friendly chime sounded as his log-in screen faded in, and John thoughtlessly imputed his password. No need for a password now that Sherlock is- He got up to turn off the kettle, which had begun a high-pitched wailing, when he heard a beeping message alert. An instant messaging window was open, with a singular line of text. John limped to the kitchen, intent of stopping the kettle’s bleating cry before doing anything else.

John returned to his seat in front of the computer, scanning the text quickly, his cursor hovering over the internet icon as he prepared to pull up the blog page. His breathing stopped suddenly at the words. Heart thundering, he read them again and slowly, mouthing every syllable to ensure he had them correct.

` John- He’s alive. It’s unsafe for you to see him now, but he’s alright. –MH `

John stayed motionless, rereading the two short sentences again, then once more. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, and was unsure whether it was out of elation or fury. Another line of text bleeped at him.

`John? - MH `

John typed a small response, dazed and in shock, his headache forgotten. ` How.-JW `

` Haven't the faintest. I’m sure my brother will grace us with an explanation as soon as he deems it appropriate. As for the moment, all I can tell you is that he is alive. –MH`

John surprised himself by slamming a hand onto the desk, palm down. He barely felt the sharp stinging in his fingertips as he rose shakily to his feet, eyes closed. A stab of hurt and betrayal penetrated him, intermingled with incredible relief. Both feeling fought for dominance in his gut, and John found that he was crying. He pressed a hand to his eyes, at once alarmed and disgusted. “Get a bloody hold on yourself.” He muttered.

He drew in a shaky breath and rose to his feet, forgetting his tea and toast. John was outside 221B in the time it takes to blink, wearing his jacket, with no idea how he had gotten there. This had to be the fastest he had moved in ages. A cold breeze picked up, stinging his cheeks and whipping the rain in his direction. John paid no mind. It was time to pay a visit to Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson hailed a cab for the first time in two weeks, and as his past precautions dictated, he looked carefully at the driver as the cab pulled up alongside the curb. A complete stranger stared back at him, and John sighed with relief. He clambered into the backseat. “ Saint Mary’s Burial Churchyard.” He stuttered, smoothing the front of his jumper and running a hand through his damp hair. John looked out the cab window, seeking to distract himself from the thoughts racing around in his head. Besides, all of his theories were probably wrong. 

In the immediate days following St. Barts, John had driven himself close to madness with investigative guesswork. He had questioned every nurse, passerby, and doctor involved in the recovery of his friend’s body …corpse… but hadn’t come up with any useful information. The only thing that had given him the slightest pause was Moriarty.

The body of James Moriarty was never found- not on the roof of St. Barts, where a sizable pool of blood matching his DNA had stagnated, nor anywhere else.  
So as John watched raindrops forge pathways down the passenger side window, this is what he focused on. Irene Adler had faked her DNA records in order to falsify her death, so why couldn’t Moriarty do the same? This, however, seemed too obvious. John smiled. A small part of him couldn’t wait to hear Sherlock say that word again. He wondered if it was the same part that flinched when he saw a tall man in a dark coat, or when he heard the sawing of a violin. He shook himself, unable to follow that line of thought. If Moriarty had, in fact, been killed- who moved the body? Of course, the bastard had hundreds in his employ, but after Sherlock had fallen…. Jumped…. The hospital had been swarming with police. Whoever it had been must blend in considerably well.

His thoughts were interrupted as the cab slid to a slow stop by the front gates of the cemetery grounds. Immediately following St. Barts, Mycroft had visited John in the flat to arrange Sherlock’s burial. John had thought it curious at the time that Mycroft would approach him at all , especially considering his role in Sherlock’s death, but hadn’t been in the state to think about it any further. Now, however, he wondered if Mycroft had always known that it was not his brother’s body being lowered into the ground. Perhaps nothing had been buried at all.

Regretting not grabbing his umbrella on the way out the door, John paid the cabbie and stepped out into the downpour, jogging through the open front gates and safely under the heavy cover of trees. Large droplets occasionally made their way through the canopy, soaking John to the bone and make him shiver uncontrollably. His leg hurt, and his headache had returned with a vengeance. He squinted into the veil of rain, scanning the field for Sherlock’s gravestone.  
What he saw instead almost made his knees give out on him altogether. He promised himself it wasn’t fake, that he hadn't made it up in his head. He swore to himself he didn’t imagine seeing a dark figure standing over the grave that was supposed to be his own. That the figure then turned, saw him under the trees, and dashed in the opposite direction. Legs shaking, John stumbled after him. “Sherlock!” he shouted, his cries drowned out by the torrential downpour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooOOOooooh intrigue.


	3. Hang On To Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All over again.

John ran, his shoes slipping in the fresh mud, his breathing labored and harsh. He was blinded by the stinging rain, which seemed to be pounding harder with every passing second. _I can’t lose him. Not again._ he thought, pushing himself forward, his throat raw as he screamed for his friend. He dodged crumbling grave markers, one arm outstretched, reaching, hoping.

John’s shin connected with an unseen gravestone with a sharp crack, and he tumbled into the mud and the grass, his bad arm catching his fall and then giving out under the strain. He dragged himself to the offending marker with the other arm, leaning against it as his vision went white with pain. He gasped for air, coughing as he inhaled rainwater. 

The storm began to pass, the rain lightening to a soft drizzle as he lay collapsed and broken against the bleached white stone. _You lost him. You lost him. You lost him._  


_And you’ll never get him back._  
****  
John lost track of the passing hours, slipping in and out of consciousness as the agony hit him in waves. He tried several times to clamber to his feet, falling back on the ground when the pain sang through his bones and blinded him with a veil of red, and worried vaguely about internal bleeding before slipping into a cold, distressed sleep.

A metallic screech woke him, and he blinked hard against the harsh morning glare. Looking up and squinting, he could see that yesterday’s thunderheads had passed, leaving himself and the ground beneath him soaked and muddy. John heard the sludge sucking on a pair of rainboots as a withered groundskeeper approached, eyeing John warily. 

“You can’t sleep ‘ere.” He grumbled, scraping his top lip with his teeth in agitation. “Thas not right, lyin’ with the dead.” The man pulled his left boot free of the clinging mud with another loud squelch.  
John laughed humorlessly. “Why not? Feels like home.” he asked, his voice cracking. His mouth was dry, his throat felt inflamed, and his broken limb threatened to push him back into unconsciousness.

The man squinted at him, his nervous gnawing gaining speed. John watched the movement in fascination, his own jaw slack. Finally the groundskeeper’s gaze fell on John’s damaged leg, and his eye widened in distress. John followed the look and whistled through his teeth at the sight of his deformed shinbone under his torn pant leg. “Just lovely, isn’t it?” he said dryly, coughing to clear his throat.

“I’ll call an ambulance...” the man whispered, pulling his boots free of the clinging muck before tromping towards the stone chapel. 

“I’ll wait here.” John called weakly to the retreating figure, and leaned back against the stone. He wondered if Sherlock knew John had hurt himself. If he was hanging about behind the trees, watching the proceedings like an experiment. A familiar ache blossomed in his chest , and he took a deep breath to calm himself. By the time he exhaled the blackness had consumed him again.

_~two weeks later~_

“Well... I’m afraid the surgery didn’t have as profound an effect as we’d hoped...”

“You don’t have to coddle me, I was doctor too. A bloody good doctor...” John trailed off, lost in thought, and his practioner coughed to recapture his attention. 

“In that case Doctor Watson, I’ll be blunt. It’s highly unlikely you’ll be able to fully recuperate from this sort of injury, or regain any feeling in your leg. The nerve damage was more extensive than we predicted. Given your age, a safe recovery is unlikely, and I would recommend as your physician that you begin physical therapy in roughly a week, and-”

“And use a wheelchair.” John finished, not meeting the doctor’s eye. Bile rose in his throat, and a dark feeling of self-loathing clenched in his gut as he pinched the white hospital sheet between finger and thumb. He had known as soon as he emerged from the fog of anesthesia a day ago that his second surgery hadn’t been a success. The pain below his knee cap had faded to a haunting ache, and some gentle probing with the pad of his thumb had revealed that he couldn’t feel anything below that point. It had only been the small matter of having that fact confirmed by numerous tests and pitying looks by the nurse when she brought in his breakfast.

“Yes. Until we’re sure you’re beyond danger of any further complications.” the doctor punctuated this with a curt nod, playing his fingers over the back of his clipboard absently. “For now, and while you’re going through therapy, I’d like you to remain in Patient Care, but we’ll be taking you out of the ICU in a day or so.”

John didn’t respond, letting an uncomfortable pause settle in the air before he spoke, his voice sounding distant. “You’re considering removing it then?”

The doctor stared pointedly at the lump John’s damaged right leg made under the blanket before answering him. “We’ll give it some time, and if there’s continued unresponsiveness then yes, that is a possibility. We have other options also, but that needn’t be a concern just yet. You might still recover some feeling and we can rehabilitate you from there.”

John snorted, finally look up at the young man by his bedside. “I wouldn’t count on my luck, mate.”


	4. Turned On Me

_~two months later~_  


It still felt alien, waking up every morning having to attach his leg to his body. Far better, of course, than hauling himself into the saddled seat of his wheelchair and pushing his way out of the flat. Once the prosthetic was secured to his right knee, he bent and straightened the joint carefully before standing, one foot landing softly on the carpet and the other with an inhuman hardness. John sometimes imagined he could feel the floor with both, and he now knew, of course, how strong his imagination could be.

Somehow, realizing that Sherlock hadn’t been at the churchyard at all was a calming thought. It was far easier to accept a hangover-fueled breakdown than the idea that his best friend was magically reanimated, having returned from the dead to tear John’s mind to pieces with a single appearance. There had been no proof that Mycroft’s messages had ever existed, after all. Even the thought of it brought on a fit of laughter as John made his way to the small kitchen of 221C.

Moving into the downstairs flat became necessary upon John’s return home, as he was almost permanently bound to his wheelchair and therefore unable to climb the stairs to the upper rooms.  
Mycroft had insisted on installing a handicap lift in the narrow stairwell, an action John neither disputed nor encouraged. It had been the only contact he received from the eldest Holmes since his accident, an arrangement John found he was happy with.

As it happened, switching his living place had turned out to be a better idea than John had expected. 221C bore very little resemblance to it’s companion flats, and therefore pleasantly served as a healthy separation from his time with Sherlock Holmes. A large part of him ached for that life, the excitement and thrill of chasing criminals through the London streets led by his grinning flatmate, but that ache grew fainter now. Every time he brewed a single cup of tea instead of two, every time he woke up to his alarm sounding rather than a shrill violin, every time he ducked his head past a crime scene instead of ducking his way inside, that adventurous life drifted deeper into memory and farther from his heart.

John made his morning tea on autopilot, having settled enough into his new home to rely on muscle memory to guide his movements while he planned out his day. He muttered his thoughts aloud, partly to himself and partly to the skull that was perched on the countertop facing him. Unsurprisingly, the skull proved to be a patient listener, and was one of the few items he was taken with him to the lower flat.

His phone rang in the other room. Picking up his hot cup of tea, John made his slow way towards the arm of the ratty couch where he had left his phone the night before. The caller ID was blank. John frowned, presuming it was Mycroft, before accepting the call with a flick of his thumb across the screen.

“Hullo?”

_“John... It’s Sherlock.”_

John dropped his cup, staring straight ahead as the hot liquid sprayed out onto the floor and the glass cracked. The hand holding the phone to his ear began to shake minutely, and John swallowed hard. It was one thing to imagine seeing him. It was very much another to hallucinate the ringing phone and his voice on the end of the line.

_“John? Mycroft said you already knew-”_

Sherlock’s voice cut out as John pitched the phone into the wall. The screen shattered on impact, and suddenly his knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto the arm of the sofa. John sat there for a moment before covering his face with both hands. He screamed until his ears were ringing from the noise of it.

****

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hand as the line cut off, frowning in confusion. He dialed the number again, sure that he had it correctly. He never mixed up such things. Pressing it his ear he listened to every ring, hanging up only after John’s voice directed him to leave a message.

He really did hate calling, but he was uncertain John would believe that it was actually him if he didn’t hear his voice. Phone calls were such awkward, ridiculous things- invented for neighborhood gossips to chat over their third tray of biscuits about what horrendous scandals the younger generation had achieved. Sherlock dropped his phone deep into his coat pocket and turned to knock at the door of 221B Baker Street.

He rapped once, and pressed the bell with a weary sigh, tapping his shoes on the gritty concrete and swinging his hand behind his back to interlock his fingers. Without warning, an animalistic howl rang out from the window of the lowest flat, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. _That sounded like..._ Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of the lock, wrenching a packet of thin metal tools from his left pocket and removing a leather-handled pin from its sheath.

Something horrible was happening to John. _Stupid, stupid, stupid for not putting it together._ No wonder John had hung up so abruptly. He jammed the thin tip of the tool into the lock, twisted it a practiced motion until he heard the first hammer give way with a muted click. The second and third cogs soon followed, and Sherlock leaped to his feet and twisted the knob in one fluid movement. 

“John??” He called down the stairs, frowning in confusion as he raced past the handicap chair. One of Moriarty’s men posing as a new tenant? Fooling John, torturing him? But why the handicap-

He skidded to a halt outside of the door as the pieces came together in his head. “John...” he whispered this time, his fists coming a rest by his sides. The screaming had quieted into a broken whimper, sounding for all the world like a wounded animal. Sherlock swallowed before raising a cautious hand to the doorknob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer you thanks for reading so far.... and a hug for feels.  
> All comments/kudos are being given a loving home.  
> Feel free to send as many as you like.....


	5. Make Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does a madman convince a man he's not mad...?

Before he lost his nerve and retreated to call Mycroft (an instinct he’d never admit to), Sherlock stepped into the flat and closed the door behind him. The proof of John’s injury seemed to shout at him and he closed his eyes tightly to gather his strength.

 _Wheelchair in the corner- hasn’t been used in less than a month, scuffing on the floor around the bed-pushed against the wall for space and mobility, sterilization solution on the bedside table..._ his brain catalogued every single detail against his will. _John in the corner...._

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. His friend hadn’t turned to look at him, not even when Sherlock again called his name. John’s lower half was hidden by the arm of a hideous sofa, and Sherlock approached him slowly, one arm outstretched so he could fend off an attack, if one would come.

John was muttering now, his words unintelligible at Sherlock’s current distance. He edged forward, trying to interpret the mumbling, lowering his hand as he neared the cowering doctor. As he drew closer, the words began to make sense.

“Not real. You’re not here. You died. I saw it...” John’s whispering pitched higher as Sherlock loomed above him, trying to work up the nerve to place a hand on the doctor's shoulder. The farther Sherlock leaned over his friend the more the damage he had inflicted was visible- the sight of the prosthetic limb wracking him with some unknown emotion. His tentative fingers brushed the material of John’s shirt, and unable to stop himself Sherlock grabbed a firm hold of his shoulder.

“You’re not real!” John roared suddenly, throwing off Sherlock’s grasp with a violent jerk, curling upon himself and shaking. The detective’s eyes filled, and he blinked hard.

_-Pulse elevated/ Heavy Breathing- panic response. fight/flight response. adrenaline._

_-Eyes watering- Auto-physiological response to unexpected stimuli._

_-Temporary. Calm, slow breathing. No lasting effects._

“John. I’m right here.” his voice was lower than he expected- his chest was tight. _What is this? Guilt? My actions were necessary. Required of the circumstances. Sentiment.... chemical defect._ Sherlock took another deep breath, strengthened his resolve, and took a hold of the cowering army doctor’s arm, yanking him with full force to his feet . _Foot. Singular._ Another stab of sentiment. _Ridiculous._

********

_Dead men don’t talk. Dead men don’t accidentally kick cracked glass when they haul their old flatmate’s up. Dead men don’t-_ “John!!” _Dead men don’t shout in their friend’s face._

“Doctor John Hamish Watson!” Sherlock was shaking him. John began to laugh. The room around them both was spinning- John realized that the imaginary Sherlock was walking them in circles, his hands clamped to the side’s of John’s face, forcing him to focus. John’s smile faded somewhat. He felt empty, wiped clean. Perhaps he’s finally lost it. Although-the rest of his life in his head with a tangible, unreal Sherlock Holmes... Not the worst of fates.

“Sherlock...” he ventured, meeting the detective’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the flat. The figment sighed in apparent relief. It was crying. That cinched it: the real Sherlock Holmes never cried (not sincerely, at least. He was scarily good at crocodile tears.)

John exhaled a shaky breath, scrubbing his face with his fingertips and struggling to relax. The figment released him, dropping onto the couch beside John with an air of finality. John watched the process patiently.

“Now that that’s settled, do you want to know how I did it?” his imaginary Sherlock grinned delightedly, looking up at John. His smile dropped to a concerned frown, looking at John closely, his eyes probing, “You’re taking this rather well.” John’s stomach turned- this wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation with himself. 

“You don’t think I’m real.” Sherlock’s tone was disbelieving. “Look at me. You’re my only friend- you’re the reason I came back!”

There was a long pause, the room quiet except for the ticking of a wall-mounted clock. John voice was disturbingly emotionless when he finally replied. “We just shared a flat. That’s all. You were my mate, and you died. I’ve had plenty of my mates die before.”

Sherlock winced at the past tense. “I didn't die. It was a trick, John- A simple, unavoidable magic trick.” His fingers formed a steeple under his chin, and Sherlock balanced his head on them, closing his eyes. “I planned it out, every step of it. You were fooled.”

John appeared not to be listening, leaving the room to make himself another cup of tea and speaking with a sigh over his shoulder. “You have no idea how much I’ve hoped that was true. Over and over again….” He fell silent, the kettle clanging onto the stove top. He eyed the skull suspiciously, wondering if it was about to jump into the conversation as well. Anything seemed possible- Sherlock had never been so vivid before.

“It _is_ true!” Sherlock cried, his eyes snapping open as he raked his hands through his hair in exasperation. “This is idiotic! You’re being a dunce, John Watson, and if there was something you never were before, it was unrealistic.” Struck with an idea, Sherlock suddenly leaped to his feet atop the couch cushion, clambering over the back and into the kitchen. “Surely if I was a figment of your grieving mind I would be unable to do this.” He pushed a tin of flour off the counter and it clattered to the floor, the lid flying across the tile and the powder fanning out in a cloud, dusting Sherlock’s shoes white.

John watched without amusement. “That was Mrs. Hudson’s…” he muttered, though the comment seemed more to himself than to the man in front of him. Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back dramatically, and John smiled faintly to himself.

When Sherlock was alive, this childish behavior had been a never ending source of annoyance for John- his pouting, his tantrums, and his quick temper with those he cared about. Now that he was gone, and had been for so long, John found that he missed it. Perhaps the most acutely out of all of Sherlock’s traits, oddly enough, which is why he guessed he was manifesting it now.

_I might never get him back... but this isn't so bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need to learn a few more languages to tell the world how much I love reviews.  
> Google translate..... Rosetta Stone Latin-Based Languages.....
> 
> (CRITICISM IS EQUALLY APPRECIATED AS PRAISE. DON'T BE AFRAID TO TELL ME IF IT SUCKS.)  
> Also I love you guys. There's nothing quite like the smell of Kudos in the morning.


	6. Grounds For Divorce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detective's game plan and a doctor's belief.

It was inconceivable that John had become such a dullard in the brief time Sherlock was absent from his life.

(Having done a number of experiments on subject groups pertaining to intelligence deficit with proportional relation to injuries of varied severity, Sherlock knew that there was a slight, but not statistically differential drop in both IQ and short-term memory capabilities, as part of the brain devoted its subconscious attention to the affected area.)

John’s injury had occurred roughly three months ago _judging by the scar tissue development stages and relative lifestyle adjustments_ , and therefore his brain should have compensated effectively by now. Of course, grieving and substantial medication dosages had changed him somewhat, but that did not account for this current predicament.

Sherlock was intimately familiar with the recovery regimens in place for John’s optimum revival- he had ensured the use of various drugs in useful and effective combinations himself using Mycroft’s influence, and therefore through John’s doctors and therapist (idiotic woman) John was (somewhat) under Sherlock's own care. Or so he liked to believe.

Mycroft, however, ( _damn_ him) had refrained from updating Sherlock on John’s medical and emotional condition, banning those in his employ from giving his younger brother any information about John, an order which had led to a rather unfortunate and altogether unnecessary uncovery of Mycroft’s partiality to chocolate tea cakes (before teatime) to a talkative office aid. Sherlock had been relocated to a separate residence after that.

This, he supposed, was why Sherlock was previously unawares of his friend’s dire injury - _disability_ \- and had been caught off guard by John’s mental state. It was no matter. He could fix this.

Sherlock's mind ran like quicksilver, exmining the facts an piecing together a plan of action that would have the best results for all involved. Delusions, apparently, had been plaguing his doctor for some time. Delusions which now made Sherlock’s return seem unreal. Fantastical. Imaginary. The obvious answer, then, was to prove himself a reality by doing something that couldn’t otherwise be possible unless Sherlock was, in fact, there.

Standing there with his shoes powdered white and John avoiding his gaze, Sherlock knew exactly what to do. If John could not trust him, and if he could not trust himself, then clearly a third party confirmation was the only viable solution. _But... perhaps not yet._

This was likely to be the most comfortable John was to be around him for some time, especially once he learned that Sherlock was indeed alive, and not a figment of his imagination. It was the very definition of selfishness to continue the cruel charade- to keep John under the illusion of his death, but at the same time... _he will probably leave once he accepts the truth._

_For the benefit of us both I should keep him close._

_Not always- he will begin to suspect..._

_Disguise is always an option._

Of course! It had been useful against Moriarty's significant regime, it had worked on his own _brother!_ John would see Sherlock in his normal attire around his home, and once he left Sherlock would blend into the crowd. No one would recognize him, John would be under the impression that Sherlock still existed only in his mind, and nothing would have to change.

It's perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay- school has decided to rear it's monstrous head.
> 
> Might I just say that your kudos and reviews so far have been unbelievably encouraging and I can't thank you all enough.  
> I can try, but it's going to come out sounding something like: "SXADDSFHNHMNWFCMzGFDVSFXGUBxbwhSAZCSGHCKCVBDVCW!!!", so I figure it's best not to.


	7. Interlude- Greg Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most dangerous man in the world and a tired cop have a drink.

It was a full month before Gregory Lestrade was able to gain anything like credibility back at work. A full sodding month of unbelievable cases and whispered accusations behind his back, snide remarks over coffee and pointed questions by suspicious sergeants.

It felt like a bloody witch trial.

His transfer request was denied, which meant working alongside Donovan and Anderson regularly, both of whom strutted around like self-righteous martyrs after Sherlock took a swan dive. Lestrade hadn’t become a DI by being an idiot- he knew that something was wrong about Sherlock’s suicide (besides the horror of it all). It was much too clean and reeked of a cover-up, but he knew if he so much as stuck his nose out of the water the dogs would be on him in the time it took to blink, so he kept quiet for the time being.

His only solace was in- irony upon ironies- his correspondence with the eldest Holmes brother. They had taken to meeting, sometimes over coffee, and other times over a stiff nightcap. It had started the night following Sherlock’s death- Greg had been in a horrible way, and even Mycroft’s composure was slipping, giving way to emotion the likes of which the Detective Inspector had never seen.

As he remembered, they were sitting at Lestrade’s kitchen table, Mycroft’s jacket draped over the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, and Lestrade’s tie discarded by his side and his coat shod by the door. The room was dimly lit and littered with dishes and other detritus that the busy detective hadn’t had time to clean up. Empty glasses sat in front of them both, and Greg’s thumb ran around the rim of his distractedly. Mycroft was watching the movement, vague and unfocused. Finally he had spoken.

“This was always the way I’d expected he’d go.” Lestrade looked up at him, slightly abashed. “Not suicide, of course, but something equally dramatic. Unexpected.” Mycroft didn’t look up, even though the DI’s finger had halted its path. 

Lestrade stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Mycroft continued, “Even as a child he was incredibly rash. You saw what he could be like- he never really grew up, despite everything. I don’t know what I’ll do with my time, now that I don’t have him to reign in.” His voice caught on the last, and he covered his face with one hand, the other wrapped around his glass.

“It’s a big hole he’s leaving.” Greg agreed, dropping his eyes back to the nicked table before reaching a hand over to the distraught Holmes. He placed it carefully on his shoulder, squeezing once before letting it fall. 

Mycroft cleared his throat, wiping his face and running a hand through his thin hair. He sniffed, seeming to gather himself together, and when he raised his eyes to Greg’s, the Holmesian mask was firmly back in place. At the time, Lestrade had marveled at his sudden composure- the calm which overtook his features in mere seconds where agony had just been.

_Bloody politicians. Never allowed to feel a damn thing,_ he thought as Mycroft had stood, unrolling his sleeves and buttoning his cuffs stiffly. Once his suit jacket was back in its proper place and every wrinkle straightened or concealed, nobody that hadn’t been there would never have known that the man had showed an emotion in his life. Lestrade retrieved Mycroft’s umbrella from where it has fallen to the floor between them, and held out the handle for him. Mycroft took it with a nod. "Thank you, Gregory."

Lestrade knew he wasn't talking about his brolly. "Anytime." he replied sincerely, giving the eldest Holmes a weak smile. Mycroft had left, leaving Greg alone in the silence of his dingy flat to finish his shitty scotch and think. 

Since then, they had texted some (when Mycroft's attention was so required that he couldn't call), met three times at different cafes (all of which Mycroft swore he didn't frequent), and twice more over drinks (purely platonic, Lestrade assured himself. Just mates grabbing a pint together- at his flat). A phone call had interrupted the latest of their visits, one which had left Mycroft staring at his phone blankly, paler than any sheet of paper Greg had ever seen. Lestrade didn't ask- just handed him his umbrella and told him to go where he was needed.

"Thank you, Gregory."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Time to Play....  
> UNEXPECTED MYSTRADE!!!
> 
> Sorry for the brevity, pretty please continue reviewing. I literally do a tiny happy dance every time I get a notification about this. I just might film it one day for you luvverly people as proof.
> 
> (more mystrade-y goodness later on. If you like that sort of thing.)


	8. Only One Who Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Point-of-View Double Feature

******John******

After cleaning up the flour with Sherlock looming over him, John retired to the living room, sipping at his tea and eyeing the sizable damp patch his last cup left on the carpet. He would deal with that later, he decided. He felt surprisingly content, as if his earlier outburst had expelled something foul that had developed in his chest, but he was drained by this latest episode. It would be better, he felt, if he kept this situation to himself for the time being. Confessing his delusions to his therapist would lead to a line of inquiry he didn’t want to answer.

_How long has this been going on?_  
 _Why didn’t you bring this up before?_  
 _Is he here, now?_

Yes. That would certainly be avoided. John dropped onto the couch, settling comfortably among the ratty cushions, breathing slowly. He didn't look up from his tea when Sherlock perched beside him, his knees tucked up to his chin. Sherlock glanced at him, a look of concentration on his face, and John had the oddest feeling that he was being reminded what that looked like. He shook it off will a roll of his shoulders, his left smarting from sleeping wrong the previous night. 

“You shouldn’t fall asleep on the couch.” Sherlock muttered. “You got up in the middle of the night and moved to the bed, but not before pinching a nerve.” 

John looked at him, startled for a moment before he relaxed. “How-of course you you know that. I know that.” He sipped his tea. There was a long pause, punctuated by the barely audible tap of the figment-Sherlock’s thumb on his own sleeve and a single, drawn out breath. 

Sherlock’s phone beeped abruptly, the noise muted by his coat pocket, and he retrieved it, finger eclipsing the screen so John’s couldn’t read the new message. He rose to his feet without a word, The movement swift and quiet- a faint whisper of fabric the only sound in the room. 

“Where are you going?” John’s voice was panicked as he clambered to stand.  
“Home.” Sherlock answered simply through clenched teeth, his shoulders stiff with irritation- though not, it appeared, with John. He sidestepped around the doctor and whisked out the door without further explanation, the tail of his coat drifting behind him like a cape, leaving John stammering and confused in his wake. It made absolutely no sense for him to show up like that -unexpected and unwelcome- just to vanish in the same fashion. 

He turned to the skull. “But Sherlock Holmes never makes sense until he wants to.” he said with a sigh.

It wasn’t until John had finished his tea that he realized he had said that in the present tense.

******Sherlock******

It seemed even the mere thought of that monster he called his brother was enough to summon him from his tomb of an office and transport him to the nearest kitchen. As it was likely the fridge in 221B was either empty or gone altogether, Sherlock sped up the stairs to protect queen and country from the wrath of a peckish Mycroft. (he chuckled to himself at the thought)

Mycroft was waiting for him in what he _knew_ was Sherlock’s chair, his mouth twisted in a partial smirk and his umbrella resting against his palm. “How goes the touching reunion?” his tone was genial, which Sherlock found to be incredibly irritating.

Sherlock ignored him, taking a minute instead to look over what was left of his belongings. His violin appeared to be untouched, still propped up on the desk along with dusty case files and notes in both John’s and his own handwriting. The kitchen, he could see from where he stood, was bare- Mrs. Hudson had probably pounced to clean it as soon as she had the chance. It seemed that other than John’s meager personal necessities everything had been left alone. That was pleasing.

Finally he turned to his brother. “Did you say something?” he asked scrunching up his face in mock confusion.

Mycroft raised an imperious eyebrow, spinning his umbrella by the handle, putting a tiny divot in the floor by his feet. _A mere twitch of that eyebrow has toppled nations_. Sherlock suppressed a smirk. “How did he take it? Your miraculous return from the dead...” Mycroft drawled, looking up at his little brother with an expression of distaste.

The urge to smirk dissipated. “You knew about the prosthetic.” Sherlock stated. It wasn’t a question- he had it on some thirty-odd years experience that there was little Mycroft didn’t know or couldn’t find out if he wanted to.

“Yes.” 

“And decided not to tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mycroft looked slightly aghast, as if the prospect of Sherlock asking him such a question was ridiculous. “Because, Sherlock, you needed to see the damage.” he said slowly, rising to his feet. “You still do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you hear that sound.....?  
> It's the sound of me screeching in panic because AP tests are next week. I'm sure you can hear it wherever you are.
> 
> Thank you for you patience, dearest readers! I would hug you all but I can't because.... internet.
> 
> (Kudos, scathing or glowing reviews, kind words, mean words, and the verbal equivalents of ego-stroking are beyond appreciated. In fact, they may be MORE appreciated now because I'm a big ball of stress and tension. Not as fun as it sounds.)


	9. Running for Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a date, and a narrow escape.

******Mycroft*******

Mycroft left 221B with an sense of finality, hoping his talk with Sherlock had done more good than it had harm. It was a brisk day, and a stiff wind seemed to blow straight through his coat and scarf. He walked to meet his car -umbrella tip clicking on the pavement in time with his gait- and shivered, ducking into the heated back seat of the black car. The door was held open for him by a somber valet.

_The Iceman..._ he thought with a bemused smile, rubbing his hands together in front of the heater vent to warm them. Mycroft tucked his umbrella under his seat and relaxed into the plush seat before searching his pocket for his phone and dialing Gregory’s number with practiced ease..

“D.I. Lestrade.” he answered, sounding tired. 

“Gregory. It’s Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.” he said, hesitating, unsure if first names were appropriate. There was a pause on the other end, and Mycroft pictured him getting up to close his office door. Discretion.

“Mycroft. Hey, what’s up?”

The eldest Holmes signaled his driver to leave, and the car pulled away from the curb and into the light traffic.

“Nothing of concern at the moment. I’m having a rather trying day and I wondered if you would mind getting a drink later tonight.” His tone was carefully cordial. Mustn't insinuate.

Another, meaningful pause.

“Sure, sounds perfect. Havin’ a rough one myself, could use a shitty scotch with a mate.”

“Excellent. Any particular time you wish to meet?” This part was significant- time could indicate everything.

“Uhm... they should unlock my ball and chain after nine thirty, so- ten good?”

Ten was good. Ten was very, very good. “Ten o’clock should work out nicely. I’ll see you then Gregory. Goodbye.”

“Later.”

It sounded like a promise to Mycroft’s hopeful ears. Though hopeful for what he was completely unsure. A glance at his watch showed him that ten was some six hours away- but what with two calls to Korean ambassadors and one to a brash American senator (who needed reminding of a career-ending chemical spill on his ledger), Mycroft was sure to be fairly busy until then.

******Sherlock*******

The former consulting detective spent an unnecessary amount of time in the abandoned flat, perusing every detail with a rare patience.

Everything they (himself and John) had accomplished in this space seemed to crowd the musty air, and Sherlock would read everything like text, categorized and glowing white in his mind’s eye. What John had once jokingly referred to as his ‘deduction mode’ was showing him every scar they had left on 221B Baker Street, every scratch and burn that marked this places as theirs. 

He notes a deep score in the doorframe where he stabbed the Cluedo board (in what he will still refuse to call a tantrum), a chemical burn in the carpet that had launched an impressive tirade from John (which Sherlock had duly ignored), and the slight digs in the floor where John (used to) shuffle his foot when he was annoyed or upset. Mycroft had obscured these marks somewhat as he left, disturbing the remnants of John’s presence. Bastard.

Sherlock dismissed it temporarily, running a fingertip over the mantlepiece and absently calculating dust levels in his head. He had written an equation for it when he was twelve.

No house, once made a home, was kept pristine. People were destructive by nature, especially when they were unconscious of it. There was a dull ache in his chest and a foreign stinging behind his eyes, and Sherlock cleared his throat. Sentimentality was futile- it bred inaccuracy and poor decision making, lapses in judgement, and in a situation like this- a situation he had directly caused- delicacy was of the utmost importance.

John needed him, and that meant very little else mattered. Including Sherlock’s own needs.

The sound of the front door opening broke his reverie, and Sherlock tilted his head in order to better hear, crossing the floor carefully so as not to make a sound. The rustling of grocery bags announced Mrs. Hudson's arrival before she called out. 

“John, dear! I’ve got your snacks...”

No answer. It seemed she didn’t expect one, continuing to plod about her kitchen tucking away her food. Sherlock listened at the top of the steps silently, his breathing light and even. He contemplated declaring his presence somehow- knocking a picture off the wall next to him seemed a viable option, but that might cause her to alert John, and that simply was not acceptable. He chose, then, to wait her out- she was sure to visit her medicine cabinet for her herbal soothers any minute now, especially given the weather outside. The cold pained Mrs. Hudson’s hip more than usual, and he could hear the almost imperceptible difference in her gait as she shuffled around the lower level.

The familiar sounds of her domesticity were difficult to listen to- they brought back vividly sensory memories that he had tucked away in the recesses of his mind as keepsakes, moments of rare comfort and peace. Times of calm in the hurricane.

Sherlock swallowed and suppressed the flow of thoughts as best he could. Aloofness and emotional detachment was the hallmark of the Holmes family, and indoctrination served him well.

Finally he heard the aging landlady make her way to the restroom, and made his move. Stepping carefully down the stairs and past Mrs. Hudson’s closed door, Sherlock held his breath until the front door of 221B was closed securely and quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY for the wait. It's been a pretty shitty couple weeks.  
> BUT I LOVE YOU ALL SO I BUSTED THIS PUPPY OUT.  
> Hopefully my quality isn't so bad that I chase you all away to better fics :)
> 
> H's & K's!
> 
> (I know. more mystrade. I can't seem to help myself.)


	10. An Old Detective and An Old Trick

******John******

When confronted with such a problem, The ex-army doctor did something he had learned to do in an overheated, dusty med tent not so long ago: he sat in silence and retreated into his thoughts. John would scoff at terms like ‘meditating’, resigning such activities to the same sorts of people who tried yoga a wore cheap crystals on strings around their necks (Harry had gone through that particular phase, and the photos never failed to amuse him), but in truth what he did was not much different.

 

Sherlock had seemed to think that venturing into his mind was an action unique to himself, and in some ways this was true. From what John understood, his memories and observations were strictly organized, given imaginary halls and wings and infinite rooms, available for controlled re-examination and conscious dismissal. But the act of reflection and revision was something John shared, and something that often served him well.

 

At this moment, for instance, John drank his second cup of tea and replayed everything that had just transpired, comparing it his faded memories of his adventures with Sherlock Holmes. Things began to match- small idiosyncrasies that fed a rising delight in John’s chest. The Sherlock that had flown from the room only minutes ago had been hyperactive, tense and twitchy in a way John had never imagined him before. He had been impulsive, thoughtless, insulting- traits that upon reflection seemed odd to be so pleased about, but at the moment John couldn’t care less. In other words, this Sherlock had been the most _Sherlock_ out of any figment of John’s imagination. The most Sherlock John had seen in nearly a year.

Oh _christ._

******Lestrade*******

Greg didn’t look up from the form he was carefully filling out as someone swept into his office, closing the door behind them.

“M’busy.” he muttered, checking another box with a scowl.

“Too busy to look at a corpse?” The voice was cool, even, and instantaneously recognizable.

Lestrade’s pen dropped onto the page.

“I thought that was your job. My mistake, Detective Inspector.”

Greg looked up, eyes wide, to see Sherlock Holmes darkening his doorway for the first time in a long time. The room was silent, save for the click of the door shutting behind the younger Holmes as he stepped forward slightly. Lestrade realized he was holding his breath, and let it out with a shuddering sigh. After a long minute, he spoke. "You bloody _would_ return from the dead."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement, and he looked relieved.

The D.I. waved toward the seats in front of his desk. "Sit." he ordered. If Sherlock Holmes was going to defy death itself, then he was going to explain how and why. There were no two ways about it. Sherlock sat, as directed, and Greg raised and incredulous eyebrow. Maybe dying had tempered him a bit.

"First things first- where's John?"

Sherlock looked down. "He's... at Baker Street." Greg nodded. 

"Ah."

The younger Holmes cleared his throat, still unable to meet Greg's eye. “I had no idea he would be so... affected.”

Lestrade was shaking his head before Sherlock finished his sentence. “We all were! John blamed himself for the whole thing, you know. I mean, he was mad at your brother, of course, and me. But in the end he thought it was all his fault.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Not really.” The D.I. shuffled a stack of papers into a neat pile on his desk before looking up. “I had to take his statement, Sherlock, after it happened. Or didn’t happen. I’m still a bit unclear on all that, actually.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Sherlock dismissed him with a vague wave, annoyed at the interruption. “In good time, Lestrade. You were saying?” 

“Right. Well, Sherlock, he told me about your row in Barts, and what he called you. Could barely get the words out, poor sod, but he managed.”

Sherlock nodded once, succinctly, but said nothing.

"Anyway, he never stopped believing in you. Not once. He really cares about you, Sherlock."

"I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I am a dick for waiting this long to add a new chapter.  
> yes, I am an even bigger dick for making it so short.
> 
> I leave you with one question, my friends.
> 
> ~Do you love the mustache as much as I do?~

**Author's Note:**

> My first EVER published fic, any and all reviews are VERY WELCOME.  
> If you wanna be pals you can find me at:
> 
> stevenmoffatismyspiritanimal.tumblr.com


End file.
